


Across the Stars and Fields

by sithwitch13



Series: Across the Stars and Fields [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-11
Updated: 2011-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithwitch13/pseuds/sithwitch13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From <a href="http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/2292.html?thread=1410804#t1410804">this</a> prompt. Six months post-First Class, the appearance of mysterious children bring Charles and Erik back together in search of answers. Spoilers for the first four books of George R.R. Martin's "A Song of Ice and Fire."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Across the Stars and Fields

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Vladdie and [Lurkz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurkz/pseuds/Lurkz), who beta read this for me and listened to me complain when I was still considering setting this in the Mojoverse.

_A distant and familiar sadness calls to us  
As if carried on the wind, like burning sand  
Brothers and Sisters, away, you endure  
Stranded on our own land  
A memory etched into soul and skin  
Leaves a scar that never heals  
Our family is strong, but scattered  
Across the stars and fields  
We will not abandon you  
We will not forget you  
We will return for you _

\- “A Distant Sadness,” lyrics translation, Battlestar Galactica soundtrack

  


* * *

“I thought you said there weren't any mutants in here,” Magneto said, eying the girl through the one-way mirror.

“There weren't two days ago,” Miss Frost said, more than a touch irritated. “And I've told you a thousand times, my telepathy doesn't work when I'm diamond. Doesn't _that_ get through your ridiculous helmet?”

He flashed her a silencing look, which she was smart enough to heed―though she did roll her eyes.

Inside, the girl―a mutant, by the chart on the locked door, though her abilities were listed as “unknown”--sat huddled on a cot, her brown hair tangled, eyes barely visible over where she hugged her knees. Magneto's lips twisted. He expected to see this sort of scene, and worse, many more times. With a minimal use of his own powers, he unlocked the door, and saw he girl inside glance over.

 _"We're here to rescue you,_ ” he said in Russian learned from Azazel just in case, stepping through the door.

Instead of answering, or crying, or running out the door, the girl sprang into action and stabbed him with a broken plastic spoon.

“Frost! Put her down,” Magneto said, once he was past the shock of having an inch of serving utensil in his leg. The girl was squirming in midair, unable to get out of Emma's diamond grip. “It's all right, I suppose.”

“Gods-cursed camel cunt, I'll kill you the next time,” the girl snarled. In English. In a soon to be destroyed lab in the middle of Siberia. Frost dropped her.

“So long as you do it after we leave,” Magneto said. “We're going.”

The girl set her jaw. “I'm not going anywhere with you.” She glanced up to Frost, and Magneto was sure that behind the bravado, he saw fear. It was understandable, in this place.

“Either you come with us or this building's going to come down on top of you.” Emma shrugged. “I don't care which.” She turned to Erik. “You can take care of this; babysitting isn't in my job description.” And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving him bleeding and alone with the girl.

She tried to keep her eyes on him, he could tell, though they occasionally darted around the little room. _Looking for a weapon,_ he thought. Yes, it was all too familiar. He pulled the bit of plastic from his leg, wincing and ignoring the blood staining the dark fabric. “Come on. You don't want to be here when this place goes. I won't hurt you, I promise.”

She glared up at him, but edged toward the door, finally following along, slightly-too-long scrub trousers scuffing at the floor. She stepped over bodies without a word, though she did stop to kick at one she recognized with a bare foot before they left. He didn't ask.

There was no jet waiting for them. Only Azazel, who could teleport them back to their temporary base. The girl made a quiet noise but said nothing when she saw him, and when Magneto glanced down at her, her jaw was set. But when he brought the base down with a pull, she grinned savagely.

* * *

“We've never had a child this young here,” Charles said anxiously. “Doesn't he have any relatives who--”

“That's the thing,” Moira said, her voice hushed. “He's not―it's complicated. There's a lot more to it, and I trust you in this situation a lot more than I trust Stryker. But you'll have to move fast.”

“I understand. Thank you.” He hesitated. “Are you sure...?”

She nodded, keeping her eyes on him. “Yes. It's fine. You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“Aside from that, I'm a little worried about permanent damage.”

Moira smiled. “I trust you.”

An hour later and Alex was driving him back from Moira's hotel, back to his mansion, and he wished for the umpteenth time that week that Erik and Raven had never left, though this time it was for somewhat less selfish reasons. Between the two of them, they had a tremendous advantage at infiltration that his students couldn't begin to match. And from the sound of it, this child needed that help.

He sent out yet another mental call to either of them, hoping to catch Erik without his helmet, or Raven in a good mood. But without Cerebro's help to boost his abilities, for all he knew he was shouting into the wind.

“Why don't you send the new girl with us?” Alex asked as they turned in to garage. “Shannon? What's her name?”

“Xi'an,” Charles corrected. “And no, I don't think so. She's only just come from a war, I won't ask her to do this now.”

Alex parked and brooded. “We can always just bust our way in.”

“It lacks finesse, though, doesn't it?” He sighed. “Leave me in the Blackbird. I'll do what I can from there.”

Alex snorted. “Yeah, we'll see what the rest say.”

“We'll see if they even agree to do this.”

Alex gave him an _are you kidding_ look as he stepped out, and sure enough, Sean and Hank were suited up along with Alex within the hour. Even Xi'an, who wore sweats and looked nervous, had told him in no unclear terms that she would be going.

When they got to the facility, it was dark. Charles stayed behind, alone, his eyes closed and telepathy stretched out. He could feel his, the soldiers and scientists and one frightened little mind.

Xi'an bullied her way to the forefront, slipping into minds and steering them. Her control could do with some fine-tuning, Charles thought―while she did what she intended every time, she was clumsy at it.

The boys followed, backup and raw power in case things went wrong. Hank doubled as brainpower despite his beastly form, erasing evidence here, inventing misdirection there.

 _Can you see him?_ Charles thought, guiding the children mentally to where he felt the small scared mind, inside a small locked room. It wasn’t where _he_ would keep a small child who had appeared out of nowhere and was suspected of being not completely human, but Charles was also not in the habit of kidnapping and locking people up, and was perhaps not the best judge of such things.

Sean blasted the lock off of the door with a blast of acoustic energy, and then screamed again as something gigantic and gray lunged out at him. The rest of the team’s shock nearly threw Charles back into his own mind. “Is he a shapeshifter or something?” he heard Alex ask, panicking. “Christ, I can’t hit a kid.”

Charles blocked out the noise and made contact, only to find that there were two minds inside the animal. The one at the forefront was purely animal, raw anger and terror and bloodlust. And just behind it, not unlike Xi’an’s own abilities manifested, was a human mind, clinging like a rider on horseback, just as terrified but still capable of rational thought.

 _We’re here to help you,_ Charles sent to both minds, along with a sense of sympathy and calm as pure as he could muster so that even the animal could understand. The gigantic dog―wolf?―halted, and the boy’s mind turned toward his.

 _Who are you?_

 _We’re friends,_ Charles thought. _Where is your own body?_

The boy’s mind twisted, the equivalent of making a disgusted face. _I don’t like it there._

 _We only have a little time, and you could be in great danger if you stay here._

 _But I don’t know where I am. It’s just a little dark place._

With a huff, Charles cast about looking for anything that could help him. A mental trail, like he could pick up on when Xi’an possessed the mind of another. And there it was, faint but present. He broadcast the directions to the other room, locked and across the building, to the rest of the team. _Please stay close to them,_ Charles said to the boy in the animal’s mind, _and try to keep from attacking anyone._

 _It's a boy_ Alex thought at Charles a few minutes later. _He's asleep or something._

It wasn't easy flying back home with a gigantic terrified wolf in tow.

* * *

The mutant girl refused to tell so much as her name. She'd give a different one any time she was asked.

“You can't just leave,” Angel tried to tell her. “You're what, nine? Ten? Things don't go well for kids your age on their own. Especially not mutant kids, now that the world knows about us.”

In response, the girl glowered up at her and said, “I killed a boy when I was nine.”

Angel stopped trying to reach out to the girl after that, but she had plenty to say to Magneto. “That kid creeps me the hell out. Do you think she's lying?”

Magneto gave her a look, then glanced pointedly down at his leg, which was still somewhat painful. “As a matter of fact, I don't.”

“Ugh. Why are we even bothering keeping her around? Shouldn't we drop her off... you know, somewhere else? Like--”

“This gets discussed later,” he said, before she could say _Xavier’s_.

 _Later_ turned out to be forced sooner than expected. Mystique stormed in, furious. “Do you know what that bitch did?”

Magneto, fighting a headache already, rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Before he could answer, Mystique thundered on. “Frost went into the girl’s mind. _On purpose_.” She glared at him, yellow eyes burning. “I don’t have to tell you how it feels to have someone poking around in your mind, even when you ask nicely.”

The headache was coming on in full force now. He leaned back. “I’ll take care of it.”

For now, the girl was in Mystique’s room, wearing stolen clothes that looked entirely out of place on her. Maybe it was how uncomfortable she seemed in them, always picking at the hems. “I'm coming in,” he called through the door after a cursory knock.

“No, you're not,” the girl said back, the defiance coming through even muffled.

“Yes, I am,” he said, patience given by sympathy fraying. The knob turned, the door opened, and the sharp piece of metal the girl was about to stab him with stayed in midair. He sighed in exasperation. “Please.”

“How are you _doing_ that?” she said, trying to tug it out of midair and then giving up, nearly at the point of tears in frustration. “I just want to go home! Why won't you people let me go?”

“I don't intend to let small children go wandering off through Europe alone,” Magneto said, too aggravated to be at all amused.

“I'm not a _child_!” she shouted. “I hate you and I don't even know what a _europe_ is or what mutants are or _what_ you people are!”

He counted to three and closed the door behind him. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said firmly. “But I am going to ask you some questions, and answer some of yours if I can. And then I’ll decide how to proceed. I’ll thank you to not try and stab me again. And please remember, if you lie, I can just get the true answers from my associate Miss Frost. She’s the one I understand has just been rooting around in your head.”

Her eyes darted from him to the door and to the broken pipe, now safely out of her reach, and he could see her weighing things in her mind. “Okay,” she finally said, slumping.

“What’s your name?”

“Arya Stark,” she said reluctantly.

“Where are you from?”

She chewed at her lower lip. “Winterfell.”

He frowned. “Where’s that?”

“In the north,” she said, giving him a look that suggested that she thought there was something wrong with his intelligence. He let both go for now.

“How old are you?”

Ten. I think.”

He dropped that one for the moment, too. “How did you get to that laboratory?”

“The what?”

“The place we found you.”

“Oh.” She chewed her lip again, seemed to catch herself doing so, and stopped angrily. “I don’t know.”

“What about before?”

“I was in Braavos,” she said, soft and ever so slightly confused. “The moon was dark.”

“Where’s… Bravos?”

“Braavos,” she corrected him, changing the pronunciation slightly. “One of the Free Cities? Everyone’s heard of it.”

He shook his head slowly. “I consider myself something of a world traveler, and I’ve never heard of it.”

“You’re lying,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “You’re just like the rest of them and you’re lying.”

 _The rest of who?_ he thought, though what he said was, “I don’t have time for this. If you have questions to ask, then ask. Otherwise, I’ll leave you alone.”

The girl tightened her grip on her knees. “Where am I?”

“At the moment, Portugal.”

She froze. “I don’t know where that is.”

He started to explain, but she only got more confused and angry, so he stopped. Her next question: “What are you?”

“A mutant. _Homo superior_.”

Again, a blank look. If Portugal had confused her, genetics would doubtlessly do so in spades, so he did away with it. “I have special abilities,” he said instead. “And the people who took you think that you do, too.”

“I can use a sword,” she said hesitantly. “Not everyone can do that. At least, not well.”

“Not _that_ kind of ability,” he said.

“Can your friend really read minds?”

“You know what you felt. You tell me.”

Arya shivered, and drooped. “Are you going to sell me for ransom?”

“No,” Magneto said firmly. “If you are a mutant, you’re one of us. We don’t hurt our kind if we can help it.”

The girl looked at him squarely. “What’s _your_ name?”

“Magneto.”

She wrinkled her nose, but said nothing, and didn’t seem interested in talking any further. He excused himself and left, off to find Miss Frost, lecture her once again about prying into peoples’ minds without permission unless they were the enemy, and then find Azazel and have him drop the girl off.

Wars were no place for children, he knew from experience. Even ones who claimed to have killed already.

* * *

The boy’s name was Brandon Stark, though he preferred to be called Bran. (”Like the breakfast cereal?” Sean had asked, which had earned an elbow in the ribs and a “Shut up, _Banshee_ ,” from Alex.) The wolf―which the boy insisted was a direwolf, and was certainly large enough if not extinct enough to back it up--was called Summer.

He didn’t want to talk about his legs (”I fell,” was all he’d say, and then he’d change the subject,) where he had come from, or what his mind had been doing inside the direwolf. He was very interested in how they had flown back to the mansion, and doubly so when Sean boasted about how _he_ could fly by screaming.

“He can show you after you’re settled in,” Charles said. “I think you’ll be staying with us for a while.”

“Okay,” the boy―Bran―said, shrugging.

“Where are your parents?” Xi’an asked. It turned out to be another question that he didn’t want to answer.

Once they had landed, he seemed tremendously interested in Charles’ chair. “Don’t they have wheelchairs where you come from?” Hank asked.

“No,” Bran said, more fascinated by it than by Hank’s furry blue face. “It would have been really nice, though.”

Charles and Hank shared a look, and he could feel Hank thinking a question very loudly at him. Charles sent back a quiet but definite _not yet._ Not without permission. Not unless it was an absolute emergency, and this―while very mysterious―was not dire enough to call for diving into a small child’s mind just yet.

So for now, Hank carried Bran out of the Blackbird while Summer padded along behind like a gigantic gray honor guard, and one of the numerous spare rooms was cleared out for the boy’s use. “We’ll have something ready for you to scoot around in in no time,” Hank promised him.

“Can Summer stay in here with me?” Bran asked. “He used to back home, until―” He reddened, as if about to say something embarrassing except for the sudden wave of anger that came through, and said, “Well, it was an accident, and everyone here seems really nice.”

Charles, who sat out in the hallway, pictured the gigantic animal (direwolf? _Really?_ ) gnawing on the furniture―or worse, on one of the students―but thought of the boy’s mind inside of it, and nodded despite his misgivings. “For now.”

“Oh, good,” Bran said, sighing with relief. “Summer, to me.”

The wolf bounded up on the bed next to the boy like a destructive blanket, and Charles wheeled himself away before he could change his mind. Hank caught up shortly. “Something here is not adding up,” he said quietly.

“That is something of an understatement,” said Charles. “Once he’s comfortable, I’ll talk to him and see what I can learn.”

Surprisingly, the boy asked to talk to him first, within the hour. “What happened to _your_ legs?” he asked, leaning forward on the wolf. Summer was stretched across the foot of the bed, letting Bran prop himself up over him like he was a harmless stuffed animal instead of the Big Bad Wolf of fairy tales come to life.

“There was an accident,” Charles said evenly. “I was shot in the spine.”

“Oh.” Bran scratched at Summer’s rough fur. “I don’t remember how I… they said I fell.”

 _I didn’t see anything,_ Charles heard in his mind, so faint that it could have been imagined if not for the slight flinch, and the way the wolf tensed up as well.

“What am I doing here?” Bran asked, before Charles could press.

He hesitated. “We think that the reason those people had you, the reason we came to get you, is because you can do something that other people can’t. I felt your mind in Summer when we found you, and―”

“Are you the three-eyed crow?”

Charles stopped short. “Am I the what?”

“The three-eyed crow,” he repeated, looking up from the wolf, blue eyes intense. “I was looking for him, before I came here. I dreamed about him, and Jojen said I needed to find him so I can learn how to ‘control my gift.’” He twisted his mouth. “I _can_ , though, I can warg into Summer any time I want, and I think I even warged into Hodor once.”

“…warged?” Charles said, blankly.

“And if you can enter minds, you _might_ be the three-eyed crow.” He squinted. “You don’t look like a crow, but Jojen said he dreamed I was a winged wolf once, so maybe it’s like that.”

“Bran, can I try something? I’d like to try and talk with you in thoughts. It might be quicker and easier for us both to understand. I think… I think we’re both missing several key points here.”

Bran frowned. “I don’t know. I went inside of someone’s mind once and it felt…” He shivered, clutching Summer.

“If it makes you feel uncomfortable, I’ll stop. But I do think it’s the fastest way for us both to get questions answered.”

The boy looked outside, looked at Summer, and nodded. “Okay.” He closed his eyes.

Charles reached out and felt the boy grab on to his mind almost instantly. Clumsily, but there was practice at something similar. _I just want to see where you’ve been,_ Charles thought, and he could feel Bran’s hesitation, but then Bran let him see. It was alien, but somehow familiar―almost like woodcuts from medieval Europe. A stone castle in summer snow, people (Bran named them all as he saw them: each family member, and his lord father’s men and their families, everyone who lived within the walls and the winter town) and all of them in homespun clothing and leather and furs against the northern weather of Westeros. A scarred over memory that Bran pulled him away from surely, gold and terrible, and a man beheaded. The memory of blood made Charles ill, but Bran strangely proud. _I didn’t look away,_ he thought. Memories of war, far away and then closer to home with the news of his father’s death and his sisters’ capture and his oldest trueborn brother riding off to war and a crown. The Jojen that he had spoken of, a boy all in green and speaking in riddles.

More memories of blood, of people he knew and the castle burned while he and a few others hid in crypts. Bran seemed strangely far away from these memories. _I was in Summer,_ he answered. _It was easier._

 _My turn,_ said Bran’s thoughts.

So Charles showed him the school, and mutants, and being fired at on the beach. All of his memories of the world outside, of cars and music and running water, of books and wars fought with guns and missiles instead of swords and crossbows, of high rise apartment buildings and grocery stores. Raven’s human mask and blue form, and Hank before his disastrous attempt at fixing himself, and one quick memory of Erik moving a satellite. Only the one, because it was none of Bran’s business.

There was less blood in Charles’ memories than there was in Bran’s, but no more answer to the biggest question shared by either: How had he come from the north of Westeros to a facility in Georgia, and now to upstate New York?

“Professor?” came a voice, snapping them both out of shared headspace. Sean jogged in, shaking his head. “Sorry. Uh, you’re probably gonna want to come see this. We’ve got another one.”

“Another what?” Charles asked, trying to process everything and somewhat fuzzy with it.

“Another kid.”

* * *

Two days hadn’t passed before Mystique knocked on his door. Their current base, now in Rio de Janeiro, was more cramped than the one in Portugal had been and tempers were high. He expected the worst.

“It’s Charles,” she said, and he certainly hadn’t been expecting _that_.

“Is he all right?” Magneto said, standing. “The mansion? The―”

“He’s fine, they all are,” Mystique said irritably. “He wants to meet with you. And me, but mostly you.”

Sudden relief bled away. “What? Why?”

“I don’t think he’s planning to lecture us or anything. It’s about that girl, the one you had Azazel drop off. I think he wants to know more about her.”

Magneto laughed humorlessly. “I’m hardly the authority on _that_. Honestly, if Charles wants a glorified PTA meeting―”

“I think there’s more to it than that.”

“When is there not.” He bit back a stinging reply, seeing the naked want on Mystique’s face. She hadn’t seen her brother in nearly half a year, since―

“Fine,” he said. “We’re going.”

She grinned. “I’ll find Azazel.”

Azazel grumbled and made noises about being nothing more than a glorified transport system, but obeyed. “You should see about getting a jet of your own,” he said darkly, depositing them on the lawn and vanishing in smoke-like residue.

“I hate that guy,” Mystique said, shaking her head and starting the walk toward her former home. Magneto hesitated only a fraction of a second before catching up and taking the lead. “This isn’t going to be awkward at all,” she muttered.

He didn’t say anything. _Awkward_ was the absolute least innocuous word that he could think of to describe this.

Sean answered the door, wide-eyed, and nearly closed it in their face out of surprise. Mystique pushed at the door. “Charles wanted to see us. Where is he?”

“Uh…” Sean stammered, very visibly trying to come up with a plausible lie, until he stopped, turned his head as if he was listening, and made a face. “Okay. So, he’s in his office, which is―”

“I know where it is. I lived here a lot longer than you did.” Mystique walked ahead, ignoring his lingering stare, and Alex’s glare when they passed him in the hall. She slowed for a moment outside the sitting room―an unfamiliar auburn-haired boy sat on a couch, reading, while a gigantic dog sprawled across the floor. The boy looked up as they passed, curious but unafraid.

Magneto’s stomach tightened, becoming queasy the closer they came to Charles’ office. They turned down the hallway, and saw that the door was open. Just before they stepped within view, Mystique glanced over, just long enough to grab his eyes, and they shared a brief commiserating moment before walking through it.

Charles was at his desk, and it was easy to pretend that he was only sitting there, that Magneto’s careless mistake hadn’t injured him permanently the last time they’d seen each other. Stress had aged him over the past few months. He didn’t look up, though he doubtless knew they were there; even if Erik wore the telepathy-blocking helmet that he’d taken to keeping about him at all times, Charles could doubtless pick up on Mystique. “I’m glad you came,” he said, putting down his pen and looking up, finally.

“Hi,” Mystique said, shyly. Magneto said nothing, but didn’t drop his gaze. He could stand to look.

“I wish this were just a pleasant visit, but I think we all know that isn’t likely to happen,” Charles said, the regret plain in his voice. “Erik―”

“Magneto,” he said sharply. Too harshly.

Charles raised an eyebrow, but continued. “Where did you find that girl?”

“Couldn’t you just pluck it out of her mind? Speaking of her, where is she?”

“No, I couldn’t. She wouldn’t let me. In fact, when her brother―”

“Brother?” Mystique interrupted.

“The boy with the wolf, you may have seen him on your way in. When he told her what I can do, she started thinking in another language. Loudly, and only when she remembers to, but she seems very determined to keep her secrets.”

“What language?” Magneto couldn’t help but ask. He had never been able to place her accent.

“It’s not one I’m familiar with. In any case, it wouldn’t be. I sincerely believe that she and her brother are not from this world.”

“That’s impossible,” Mystique said flatly.

“I read minds, you change shapes, and Erik controls metal. It’s entirely possible, however unlikely, that they’re from another world. The boy―Bran―let me see his memories, and it’s like something out of a history book. Violent and primitive, somewhere technologically comparable to our middle ages where seasons last for years.”

“Charles―” Erik rolled his eyes. “You believe any number of things I find ridiculous, but that sounds like a little boy who read King Arthur one times too many.”

“If you’d seen what I’d seen…” He trailed off. “Erik, I can show you, if you’ll let me.”

“I’d rather not. You didn’t answer my question. Where’s the girl?”

“Arya? In her room, I expect. She keeps to herself.” He shivered. “Very angry, that one.”

“We found her in a Russian lab,” Magneto said.

“Any idea how long she was there?”

“Frost maintains there were no unexpected people there two days before.”

Charles’ displeasure flashed plain for just a moment, but it was long enough to register. “That seems to be around the same time that Bran was first picked up. That _could_ be it,” he said, sounding doubtful. “I’m not sure―”

“You’ve never been on that side of a laboratory,” Magneto said curtly.

“No, I haven’t.” Charles was infuriatingly calm and conciliatory. “But there’s something deep-seated there. She frightened her brother, and the others.”

“She scared Angel, too,” Mystique said. “Said she’d killed a kid when she was nine. Oh, and she stabbed Erik with a spoon.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s not important,” Magneto said. “Assuming that your insane theory is correct―which it isn’t―and these two related children are from the same distant place, what was she doing in Russia? And where was the other doing in―where was he?”

“We rescued him from a facility in Georgia, before he was transferred to God-knows-where. He has no idea where he was before that.”

“And he’s a mutant, too?”

“He has some psionic abilities. The easiest for him is slipping his consciousness into that enormous wolf of his. He says that he’s done it with other animals and even a human once. It’s not unheard of, we have another student who―”

“And the girl?”

“She wouldn’t say.” Charles hesitated. “However, last night, I believe I picked up on her mind leaving her body as well. It might be a familial mutation.”

“Is that all you wanted? To ask about where we found her?” Magneto laughed harshly. “Honestly, Charles, you could have written a letter.”

“In all honesty, I wanted to see you both. I can’t condone your methods, but Raven, you _are_ my sister. And Erik―”

“ _Magneto_.” He couldn’t stand to hear the rest. “Mystique, if you wish to stay for a while, I won’t stop you. I think I’ll wait outside until Azazel returns.”

“Actually, would you mind speaking with Arya while I talk with Raven?”

“What makes you think that would help? The last time I saw her, she believed I’d kidnapped her.”

“Call it a hunch, if you want. I think it could help.” Charles looked bland and helpful, almost like he had in the old days but with gray starting to creep in at his temples, and Erik narrowed his eyes.

* * *

The girl’s room was upstairs, and the door was closed. He knocked and considered that if he spent the rest of his life doing tiny favors for Charles due to guilt, he was never going to have time for anything else.

“What are you doing here?” came a voice from behind him, high and accusing. Of course.

“Checking up on you, it seems,” he said, turning. The girl―Arya―stood holding a glass of water in one hand and a stainless steel paring knife in the other.

“Don’t you _dare_ take this one away from me,” she said, tightening her grip on it. “I’ll just get another one. They had lots.”

“You’re not going to do very well here if you steal the silver,” he said, but he left the knife alone for now.

“Anyway, what do you care?” She gave him one more measuring look before slipping the knife back up her sleeve.

“I care about _all_ mutants,” he said. “Even small disagreeable ones.”

“Don’t call me that!” she snapped. “I’m not a―what you said. I don’t do odd things like everyone else here.”

“Not even when you’re angry or scared?”

“If I did anything like that when I was angry I’d be exploding your stupid head right now.”

If Shaw had been here, he would have put that to the test in horrible ways. But Magneto was not Shaw and would never be, and Arya seemed more likely to try and stab him again than to suddenly manifest mutant abilities. “Charles said that you have a brother here.”

That shut her down from near rage to sullen blankness near immediately. “Maybe.”

She didn’t seem inclined to add to that, so Magneto said, “I saw him on the way in, I think. With a large dog?”

“Direwolf,” she said. “I had one too, but I had to drive her away.”

“A wolf?” He looked down the hall thoughtfully. “Dear Charles must be out of his mind with that thing running rampant through his old house.”

“Summer isn’t a _thing_ ,” Arya snapped. “And you’re a horrible old man in a stupid helm.”

 _I’m only thirty-two_ , he almost said before realizing that he was about to get into a shouting match with an ten-year-old. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs playing with your brother and his wolf instead of up here stealing knives?” he asked instead. “It’s a perfectly nice day, I’m sure―”

“He’s crippled,” she said. “He fell from a tower and we all thought he was going to die. Only he didn’t, and now he can’t walk. Anyway, I don’t _play_.” She looked at him scornfully. “Children play, and I’m not a child.”

“What do you do, then?”

She looked at him steadily. “ _Valar morghulis_. And you’re in my way.”

* * *

“I certainly don’t know what it means,” Charles said. Raven had gone to visit her old friends, leaving him and Erik alone for a little while longer.

“Do you think the boy…?”

“Bran. And possibly. It could be worth asking.” He wheeled himself out from around the desk, ignoring the quick flash of pain on Erik’s face, barely visible between the space left open and Erik’s own self control.

In the sitting room, Bran was absorbed in an old book of Grimm’s fairy tales. The boy loved stories, and while it would still be a few more days before Hank would be done with a small lightweight chair for his use, he seemed content to sit and read. “Bran?”

The boy looked up, his direwolf perking its ears up at the sudden noise as well. He settled himself up straighter as they entered, waiting.

“This is Erik, an old friend of mine. We wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Bran looked at Erik curiously, particularly the helmet. “Are you a knight?”

“What? No,” he said, at the same time as Charles snorted and said, “Of a sort, perhaps.” Erik shot him a look.

“No,” Erik said firmly. “There aren’t any knights here.”

“Other than the ceremonial sort,” Charles added. Erik rolled his eyes.

“I don’t…” Bran said, furrowing his eyebrows in obvious confusion. “What did you want?”

“What does _valar morghulis_ mean?” Erik asked

“I don’t know,” Bran said. “I don’t know any other languages. Arya might, she said she’s been to a lot of other places.”

“Arya’s where I heard it,” Erik said.

“Oh. She probably won’t tell you, then.” Bran looked down glumly. “She’s not the same. I’m not either, not even from after I fell, but she scares me a little now.”

“I overheard you talking just after she arrived,” Charles said, though it had been a less physical kind of overhearing than it had been mental. Most children were the psychic equivalent of shouting in empty hallways, and this particular discussion had been emotional enough to send him to bed with a headache.

Summer whined, and Bran looked like he would have run out the door if he could have. “She said I needed to know some things. She thought I was dead. Because―because Theon caught two other boys and cut off their faces and said they were Rickon and me, and put their head on pikes.”

Erik’s fist clenched so hard his knuckles cracked, and Bran jumped a little, but continued. “But we _weren’t_ dead, we were only hiding from him and his men. They killed everyone at Winterfell and burned it all, and when we came out… but we split up, and I haven’t seen Rickon since, and he’s little, so maybe he _is_ dead now. But Arya heard when she was down south, so she thought..” He sniffed. “I thought _she_ was dead, so it’s not fair for her to blame me. Everyone talked about our sister Sansa being a hostage but no one mentioned Arya.”

“You don’t have to blame yourself for anything,” Charles said, sending out a thread of calm for Bran to hold onto if he needed it.

Bran grabbed it, steeled himself with all the dignity his not-quite-nine year old self could muster, and continued. “She told me she was there when our lord father was killed, and how she dreamed she saw our mother―” And the thread of calm wasn’t enough, because Summer growled, deep and awful, and Bran choked back a wracking sob and held on to the book of fairy tales so hard that his fingers turned white while the wolf stood. Erik looked at Charles, pale and wide-eyed, and Charles lifted two fingers to his temple and sent all the reassurance that he could muster to both the boy and the wolf before Summer could chase both Erik and him out of his own home.

Bran caught his breath with hitching gasps, and Summer quieted, sitting back on his haunches but no less threatening for it. “I’m sorry,” Bran said. “I knew it happened. But Arya said―” He couldn’t go on, but thought the words so fiercely that Charles was still able to pluck them out of the air. _Arya said that she dreamed she saw our mother after they’d slit her throat and thrown her in the river, and if those are like the dreams I have, then it was real._ “And that there’s horrible stories about how―” he stopped again, squeezing his eyes shut, and Charles could almost see them: An auburn-haired woman, careworn and loving, and a young man who could have been an older version of Bran, laughing. “They’re all dead.” He hiccuped.

“I’ll speak with her,” Charles said. “If you’d like.”

“Let me, before I leave,” Erik said, standing quickly like he couldn’t wait to be out of the room. “She doesn’t seem to like telepaths. Frost took some answers from her head without anyone’s permission.”

“Bran, I’ll be right back,” Charles said. “I promise.” He wheeled back out of the room, just out of the doorway. “ _Emma Frost_ was rooting around in a disturbed child’s mind? Good God, how did you let that happen?”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Erik snapped. “The woman only nominally follows my orders as it is.”

“What a wonderful pack of sociopaths you’ve surrounded yourself with, Erik.”

“May I remind you that one of those is your adopted sister?”

“I’d thank you to leave Raven out of this.” He glanced back in the room. “If she won’t speak with me, I’ll need to ask a huge favor. And I know you’re not going to like it.”

“No.”

“It’s not for me.”

“This helmet―”

“I promise, I won’t influence your mind about any of your incredibly bad decisions. All I want is to ride along and see what can be done about that poor child.”

“Why not just listen in? Isn’t that what you spend your time doing around here?”

Charles gave Erik a wounded look. “I would have thought you’d known me better than that. In any case, this way I can add my own insights to yours. You’re not exactly the nurturing type, you have to admit.”

Erik clenched his jaw. “Five minutes.”

Charles grinned triumphantly. “Fine.”

“And if I want you to leave, you will.”

“Absolutely.”

* * *

It felt uncomfortable, walking around without the helmet after months relying on it to keep the unethical Miss Frost out of his head. Between the sudden lightness and the familiarity of the surroundings, he felt more like Erik and less like Magneto with each step toward Arya’s room.

 _Is that really so bad?_ Charles asked, a whisper in the back of his head.

 _Shut up,_ Erik―Magneto―thought, and knocked on the door.

“Go away!”

“It’s Magneto.”

She yelled something else then, something quasi-nonsensical and mostly obscene that made it clear that it was most likely a poorly translated curse. “Where does a young girl learn to say things like that?”

“From the brothel where your mother works!”

 _Calm down, she doesn’t know,_ Charles thought at the flare of anger.

 _I’m not so low as to let playground insults thrown out by a child get to me,_ he thought back, distracted and insulted that Charles would believe that he would be. “My mother died a long time ago. A man killed her in front of me when I didn’t do what he wanted.”

There was silence from the room, and then the door opened. “Why aren’t you wearing your stupid helm?” Arya asked.

“I don’t have much need to in here,” he said, thinking _Don’t even start,_ the second the words were out of his mouth. Charles wisely stayed silent. “May I come in?”

“Why?”

“I want to talk―”

“All anybody here ever wants to do is talk,” she said in disgust.

“I won’t argue with that.” He stepped inside, noting (with some amusement at Charles’ mental wail of horror) the scarred wooden plank edged between an equally damaged chair and the closet door. He raised an eyebrow.

“Target practice,” she said. “Only it won’t go right. This stupid knife doesn’t feel at all like the one Red Roggo taught me to use.”

“You throw knives?”

She nodded. “I’m not good yet, but I will be someday. And then I’ll kill them all.”

“The people who killed your family?”

She didn’t answer, but took aim with the small paring knife and threw again. “Ser Gregor,” she said. The knife hit one corner of the board. She walked over, yanked it out, and set herself up again. “Dunsen.” Again, she threw. The knife clattered away this time, and she repeated the name, throwing until it hit. She listed off more names: Raff the Sweetling. Ser Ilyn. Ser Meryn. Queen Cersei. The Freys of the Crossing. Each one was punctuated with another throw at the board, until she reached the end. She stabbed it into a heart that only she could see, hissing, “ _Valar morghulis,_ ” and panting, her eyes bright with hate.

“What does that mean?”

“All men must die.” She spit the words like a challenge. “I’m going back, and when I find them, I’ll kill them all.”

 _Charles. Out._

 _But―_

 _Out. I’ll tell you when you can come back._

The sliver of Charles’ presence retreated, and Erik waited a moment before continuing. “Good. Revenge won’t bring peace, and it won’t bring your family back from the dead, but if it’s something you need―”

“We were _happy_ ,” she said, stabbing the knife into the board again. “And it’s all ruined and I hate them _so much_.”

“When I was a little older than you are now,” Erik said, hesitating and then plunging on, “there was a war. People killed my family, and millions like me, because we were different. And a man named Sebastian Shaw tortured me because he said he wanted to make me better.”

“What did you do?” Arya asked, knowing the answer already by the look in her eyes.

“I killed him,” Magneto said. “Him and everyone I could find who helped him.”

Arya nodded, satisfied. “I’m never going to be a mouse or a sheep again,” she said, the words not quite making sense to him, but he thought he could get her meaning. “Not even here, even if I can’t have any secrets. I don’t care if I can’t do what everyone else here can. I’ll just do this―” she held out the knife, its blade beginning to nick from the impact with her makeshift target―”until they all know I’m a wolf.”

Erik glanced toward the door. No sign of Charles in his mind. “Charles said that you think in another language sometimes,” he said quietly. “He doesn’t know that language. If you want secrets, just think them in whatever language it is.” He tapped his temple. “It’s not quite my helmet, but there are ways around telepaths.”

Arya smiled, a sly quick thing, but it was gone in a second. “You’re going to leave, aren’t you?”

“I thought I was a stupid old man and you hated me.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I do. Everyone leaves.”

“I have somewhere to be.”

She bit her lip. “Are you coming back?”

 _I can’t do this again. If I come back, it will be harder to leave next time._ But he sighed, and said, “Yes.” _Charles?_ he called silently. _I’m going to kill you if you’re using children as pawns._

 _I wouldn’t dream of it,_ Charles said, sliding back into Erik’s mind, and the infuriating thing was that he was telling the truth.

“In the meantime, please try not to scare the others, especially your brother,” Erik said. “He was very upset.”

“He made everyone think he was dead,” she said, gray eyes flashing.

“Which is better than actually _being_ dead. I’m not expecting hysterics the next time I check in.” He glanced back at the plank. “And I expect better grouping.”

Downstairs, Charles was back at his desk, sitting serenely. Raven―Mystique―sat in one of the chairs across and looked inscrutable. “Don’t look so smug,” Erik―Magneto―said irritably.

“Am I smug? Raven?”

“A little,” she said.

“So when can I expect you back?” Charles said pleasantly.

* * *

Three months passed and settled into a new pace. Bran settled in quickly enough, making friends with everybody. He traded story for story, thoroughly horrifying them with his favorites (which inevitably involved murder, cannibalism, and so far as Charles could tell, zombies) and complaining that theirs were never scary enough. Hank was his new best friend after presenting him with a lightweight wheelchair, and giving him mobility that he hadn’t had in a very long time.

Arya was different. After that first difficult week, she proved likable enough. She told jokes that were dirtier than Alex’s if more archaic, and was interested in everyone’s business, always asking questions and wanting to try her hand at projects. But there was an edge to her. At times she seemed on the verge of snapping, especially around her younger brother, and nobody forgot the silent ball of rage that she’d been in upon her arrival. Where Bran was cosseted, Arya was treated like a live grenade.

Ability-wise, they were night and day as well. Bran could slip into Summer at will, and liked to do so. “I don’t need to as much now since I have this,” he said one day, patting his chair, “but it’s nice having four good legs. And I miss running.” He got a dreamy look. “Hunting’s nice, too.” Other creatures were a little more of a challenge, and people the largest, but he progressed slowly and surely.

Arya continued to dream of being in the animals outdoors, but refused to attempt it during the day. “It’s stupid,” she said. “Bran might be a warg, but I’m not.”

“It hurts nothing to try,” Charles said, but she narrowed her eyes and stabbed her butter knife into her toast in a very threatening way before Alex took the knife away from her. She seemed to like Alex well enough. Charles suspected it was because sometimes he spoke about prison, and she sympathized.

Charles watched Xi’an and Bran lying out in the early June sun, eyes closed and practicing letting their minds find new places to ride inside, and drummed his fingers on his desk. “Do you think it’s time to find more?”

Hank looked up from some notes, the buzz of a mind at work sputtering out. “More?” he asked blankly.

“Like them.” Charles waved a hand out toward the window. “Mutants with no place else to go. The mansion is certainly large enough.”

“Ah. Hank looked down and thought. “I’m surprised you weren’t doing it sooner, honestly.”

“I didn’t want to give the impression that I was hunting anyone down.”

Hank watched as outside, a butterfly landed on Bran’s face. The boy didn’t so much as twitch, his mind in a bird’s a mile or so away. “It’s not hunting. Not so much as it is…” He chewed the tip of his pen, casting about for the right words. “Protective custody? No, that sounds bad.”

“I understand. Really.”

Hank smiled sheepishly, inasmuch as he could with a slight muzzle and fangs. “Well, if anyone could…”

The replacement for Cerebro was now housed in the basement. It was larger and clunkier than the now-destroyed prototype Hank had built for the CIA, and mostly untouched except for the occasional use to reach out to Raven, and Hank’s constant fine-tuning meant that it was in a perpetual state of partial disarray. “Ready to be my spotter?” Charles asked, tapping the helmet. “It’s been a long while since I’ve done something this wide-reaching.”

Hank looked determined, if somewhat grim, and flipped a few switches. Things began beeping and printing out. “Ready when you are.”

Charles closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and settled the contacts over his head, stretching out with his mind.

Ten minutes later, he was exhausted and they had a list.

Two days later, and they had their first rescue. A fifteen year old runaway from the midwestern United States named Victor returned with Alex, Sean, and Xi’an, glad to no longer have to hide his green scaled skin. A week later, a nervous purple seventeen year old girl from Miami, Clarice, moved into a room as far away from the others as she could manage. Another week, and a Brazilian boy who absorbed solar energy was rescued after inadvertently sparking a riot. Within the month, a boy from Mexico who could move the earth with his mind joined them as well.

The mansion was noisier than it had been in ages, whether it was from teenagers shouting down hallways or accidental power usage. Charles made sure that his homeowner’s insurance was up to date, which was fortunate when Clarice accidentally destroyed part of a wall while teleporting.

“So, um. Professor?” Sean yelled one afternoon, skidding into his office. “It’s kind of happening again.”

“You know where the fire extinguishers are,” Charles said without looking up from a newspaper. That attack there―could that be Erik? Or that one there? One never knew.

“No, it’s not―I mean, not this time. Two girls are at the door, and they want to stay.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Erik again?”

“No, I think they took a taxi?” He gave a one-shoulder shrug.

“I suppose we’ll have to be more careful,” Charles sighed, easing himself toward the door. “Perhaps we should stop actively looking for the time being.”

The girls had been let into the hallway. One was perhaps seventeen, with black hair that showed a hint of blonde at the roots, while the other looked younger, and had auburn hair that shaded darker at the ends, as if a brown dye had incompletely washed out. The black-haired girl seemed completely composed, while the other looked uneasy. Two suitcases sat at their feet. The black-haired girl grinned broadly when she saw him. “Oh, good. You’re home.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met, miss…?”

“Braddock,” the girl said. “Betsy. And no, I don’t suppose we have yet, have we? It’s all the same, since we have now.” She waved one hand. “Sorry, it’s the precognition. It comes and goes, and it’s hard to remember what happens when. That’s why we’re here. Should have been here ages ago, but there was the plane tickets to think of, and―”

“You’re doing it again,” the other girl said softly. Where Betsy’s accent was distinctly British, the other girl’s was different but still familiar. _Like Bran and Arya’s_ , Charles thought.

“Yes, sorry,” said Betsy, not sounding sorry. “We’re here because we need to be. Mostly her.”

Charles turned his attention to the younger girl, smiling brightly. “I’m Charles Xavier. Pleased to meet you…?”

The girl glanced at Betsy, who rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you can trust him. I know it. Her name’s Sansa.”

“Betsy!” Sansa looked horrified, almost terrified.

The name was distinctly familiar after over a month of living around Bran and Arya. “Your last name wouldn’t happen to be Stark, would it?”

Sansa seemed about to bolt, like a scared deer. “It’s all right,” Charles said, sending out a calming thought. “I think I’ve heard about you. If I’m not mistaken, your brother and sister are here―”

She paled so quickly that he worried she was about to faint. “That’s not possible,” she whispered. “They’re all dead.”

“It’s entirely possible. If you ask, they’ll tell you all about it. Ask Bran,” he amended. “I’m not sure the answers you’ll get from Arya would be entirely helpful.”

Betsy caught Sansa before she could fall, not fainting but in no way steady enough to stay on her feet, and with a sudden burst of psychic energy yanked a nearby chair over. “It’ll all be okay now,” she said quietly, sitting Sansa down. “I told you, it’ll all work out.”

“You didn’t tell me about―” Sansa shook her head, unable to speak.

“I told you, it comes and goes. I didn’t see them.”

Charles searched the grounds, finding Arya in her room and Bran in the lab with Hank. “If you’d like to see them, I can call them in?”

“No,” Sansa said, wiping at her face. “Not yet. I’m―I need to―I don’t…”

“I think she needs to be alone for a bit,” Betsy said. “It’s been a hard time all around.”

* * *

“Bran, if you’re in this monster, kindly don’t jump on me,” Erik said mildly as Summer approached. The boy must have been in the direwolf at the moment, because the beast’s jaws lolled in a fearsome parody of a smile and he ran off in the direction of the mansion. Erik didn’t want to consider the possibility that the wolf could take that sort of direction on its own.

He had dispensed with his flashy red and purple caped outfit for this visit, as he had for the previous, though he still carried his helmet under one arm. It never hurt to be safe around telepaths. He had no need to make a statement here, not when Charles had made it abundantly clear that he would not be welcome to return should he use what was intended to be a safe house as a recruiting ground. Erik could respect that.

And with the summer’s heat, a cape was the height of impracticality.

He let himself in, ignoring the gaping of one of the new students in the hallway. Charles seemed to be picking up strays at an increasing rate these days, and names were hard to remember when he visited so briefly.

“Erik,” Charles said somberly, when he’d entered the library. It was a change from the pleased greetings that he’d become used to receiving, and he paused in the doorway.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s the Stark children.”

“What has Arya done this time,” Erik said, not even bothering to make it a question. “Not playing well with others?”

“No, it’s not―well, yes, but―” Charles shook his head impatiently. “Come. Sit. It’s complicated.”

Erik sat, and grew grimmer as Charles explained how the day before a third Stark child, a sister, had arrived with a British mutant who had been sheltering her for months. The new Stark sibling, Sansa, was an almost supernaturally quiet thirteen-year-old who had been found within the day of Bran and Arya’s suspected arrivals, though hidden away from prying government eyes with the help of a rich family and their indulged, eccentric psionically-gifted daughter.

“And the girl, Sansa. I suppose she’s a mutant as well?”

“That’s one of a number of odd things here. I don’t think she is.” Charles drummed his fingers on the edge of a table, mulling it over. “For all that she was difficult to read―and outside of the few other psychics I’ve met, I’ve rarely met another person with mental blocks that strong―there was very little extraordinary about her. A great deal of trauma, but not even an atrophied trace of mutant abilities like her sister’s.”

“None at all?”

“Well, a blood test will take time, and she’s understandably hesitant about it.”

“And you’re letting her stay here?” Erik said before he had really thought about it.

Charles gave him a look of pure disappointment. “Of course I am. I’m not turning away a traumatized orphaned child just because her genetic makeup is wrong, especially not when a brother and sister that she thought were dead are here. She’s scarcely left Bran’s side.”

 _And Arya is, once again, a problem,_ Erik thought. Charles must have caught it, because he added, “There seems to have been some resentment between the girls prior to―sorry,” he said, catching himself. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s fine,” Erik said impatiently. “In any case, what’s to be done?”

“I’ll keep them here, for now. Keep them safe, and try to do the best that I can. Bran has made tremendous progress in his time, and Arya… well. You’ve spoken with her. Perhaps Sansa will find the peace here that her sister has not.”

Erik wondered if there were some recrimination hidden in that statement, decided that there probably was, and let it sit. “You’re not saying something.”

“I think we need to be on the lookout. Both of us. Me with Cerebro, you with―” Charles coughed politely. “Your team.”

“How many more?”

“Maybe one, or two, or none. Bran isn’t sure if his youngest brother is alive or dead, and while Arya is convinced that if they’re all here their half-brother may be as well, Sansa isn’t.”

“And if they’re both here, they could both be mutants, or neither.”

“Things keep getting more and more interesting, don’t they?” Charles smiled dryly.

“And I suppose this Sansa doesn’t have any more clue as to how she arrived than Bran and Arya.”

“You suppose correctly.”

Erik leaned back in his chair, shutting his eyes. “I miss when we used to just have lunch and play chess.”

* * *

“Wolf,” Riptide said, catching his breath.

Magneto, lost in concentration as he crushed the prison guards’ guns into slag, didn’t respond, until Riptide repeated himself. “Wolf,” he said, more insistently. “You said to look out for them. Marrow and I saw one near the guard tower.”

He ripped down part of the fence on top of the guards before nodding to Riptide. “Not a guard dog?”

Riptide glared. “I know what a fucking dog looks like. This was a giant white wolf.”

White. That meant the oldest, a half-brother named Jon Snow that Arya spoke of wistfully. _He used to mess my hair and call me little sister,_ she said that last time they spoke, looking for a moment like any other little girl who had never so much as held a knife. “Excellent. Stick to the plan.”

 _The plan_ was to break out a mutant from this prison. Jean-Paul Beaubier, who newspapers said had said was a member of the Front de Libération du Québec and whose sister swore had been sold out by supposed friends who had discovered his gift for enhanced speed when he had wanted to sever ties. What would a possible mutant from another world, unheard from these past two years, be doing here?

The answer came when he walked into a near fight between their newest recruit, a young woman who called herself Marrow, and a handful of others. One was familiar from newspapers: Jeanne-Marie Beaubier, Jean-Paul’s twin sister. The other notable figure stood out by virtue of the giant white wolf at his side, bright against his black clothing, the sword strapped across his back, and the large automatic rifle in his hands.

 _“— _my_ brother, and I do not need your help―” Jeanne-Marie hissed at Marrow._

“You and this bunch of flatscans won’t last three minutes without―” Marrow snarled back.

Magneto raised a hand. “I believe we all want the same thing,” he said, glancing at the prison. “Every minute that Jean-Paul Beaubier remains incarcerated is an affront to mutant rights.”

One of the men―ordinary humans, Magneto thought, though without Charles and with Frost elsewhere he couldn’t be positive―snorted and muttered something in French that was too quiet and heavily Quebecois-accented for him to catch. Jon―and it _had_ to be Jon Snow, from his siblings’ descriptions of him, though they had never mentioned facial scars, and he bore a striking family resemblance to Arya―scowled. “This isn’t a matter of _mutant rights_. Jean-Paul is our friend.”

“And my brother,” Jeanne-Marie said. “You have _no right_ ―”

“We can work together,” Magneto said. “We all agree that he doesn’t belong in there, and every moment we waste arguing is another that makes it possible for any plan for escape to fail. Either we work together or we tear each other apart.”

Jeanne-Marie, clearly the head of her operation by virtue of being Jean-Paul’s sister, spoke for her group, nodding once in assent. None of her team looked particularly happy, but neither did they protest.

“My friends and I have certain extra abilities that―”

“Cut the crap,” one man said. “We all watch the news.”

“Fine. We blow an opening in the building, you get him out. I expect you know where he’s being held?”

Jeanne-Marie nodded. “Fine. _Envoye, envoye,_ move it.” She waved them on, holding a hand up to Magneto before he could follow. “If you’re here to recruit my brother or me, think again. After this, we’re done. He was quitting.”

“I assure you, I’m not here for either of you,” Magneto said, though he had been hoping that a little goodwill would help draw another supporter to his cause.

She scowled at him, chambered a round in her shotgun, and took off, faster than his eyes could track. It was a pity. That looked like a useful ability.

He caught up, not rushing, as Riptide blew knocked more guards out of the way and Marrow silenced an alarm by throwing a shard of bone through it, destroying the speaker. Their arrival was scarcely low-profile, but at least the infernal noise was somewhat lessened. Inside, Magneto could hear gunfire and screams.

As he stepped into the ruins of the cell block, amid the debris left behind from Riptide’s whirlwinds, he could see Jon―really, did the boy have a death wish? He had his sword out in one hand, the rifle in the other, and behind him his silent white wolf stalked, its muzzle stained red. Swords. Honestly. He kept just behind, keeping an eye out. No stray bullet would catch the Starks’ brother while he was here.

Jean-Paul was being kept in solitary confinement, as it turned out, due to the extenuating circumstances of his mutant gifts. The door was metal, and it was the work of a moment to remove it completely. Inside, he looked stunned, but picked himself up and assured him that he could fly out of there if need be.

“Jon,” Magneto said quietly, while they backtracked to the large hole in the wall that served as an exit.

Jon whirled around, startled and suspicious. “Nobody told you my name. Do you read minds?”

“No. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.” Magneto took stock of the situation, making sure that there were no sudden and nasty surprises to take any of them off guard. “I know your brother and sisters.”

Jon stopped, his wolf halting and staring silently up at Magneto with albino red eyes. “That’s not possible.”

“They’re not dead. They’re here, in this world, and safe with a friend of mine. Bran, Arya, and Sansa. They miss you very much.”

Jon shook his head. “No, it’s not… it can’t be. Bran’s dead, Arya and Sansa are Lannister hostages, and they’re far, far away.”

“If you come with me, I can show you,” he said. “If you want, you can always find Jean-Paul and Jeanne-Marie after. Nobody will stop you.”

He looked at them up ahead, brother and sister reunited, and closed his eyes. “All right.”

* * *

Their reunion was joyful, a mess of tears and laughter, and everyone let them have the sitting room to themselves for the afternoon. Charles didn’t ask why the young man had arrived toting a gun, or why Erik had been wearing the gaudy red and purple when he had made it a habit to visit in somber street clothing. They sat and played a game of chess silently, the helmet sitting beside Erik, until someone knocked at the door.

“Come in,” Charles said, and the boy―young man, nearly eighteen now and not the fourteen-year-old of the children’s memories―let himself in. The gun was gone, though the sword was still strapped across his back, the ruby eyes in the wolf-head pommel glinting in the firelight. Beside him, the wolf padded along, a pale shadow.

“I left the rifle with the blue hairy man. Hank, I believe he said his name was,” Jon said by way of explanation. “I wouldn’t leave it around children. And don’t give me that look, I was the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch before I found myself in your world.”

“Recruited young, did they?” Erik asked.

“Desperate times,” Jon said. “And they’ve likely gotten worse in my absence, if I was the best they could muster.”

“We believe we’ve pieced together a little of what happened to your brother and sisters,” Charles said. “Though we’d like to hear it from your side to see how correct our theory is.”

Jon flexed one hand, the one covered in a black glove, and looked into the fireplace. “Two and a half years ago, I found Ghost and myself away from the wall and in Canada. I can’t explain it any more than that, no matter how much I’ve thought on it. Jean-Paul and Jeanne-Marie took me in and kept me safe. I understand that things aren’t welcoming here for those who are different.”

“Who carry swords?” prompted Erik, though his face showed that he knew exactly what Jon meant.

“Mutants. Wargs. Beastlings. Whatever you wish to call what I do. And from what Jean-Paul and Jeanne-Marie told me, one who could simply be taken with no family or friends to ask after them would be an especially tempting target for some.”

“So you can do what Bran does?” Charles asked, leaning forward eagerly. “Is it only with your wolf, or have you tried it on others?”

“I’ve done what I need,” Jon said shortly. “It’s not something I’m proud of. I’m no wildling, to take pride in it, but the Beaubiers were kind to me and I’ll not slight them by treating all who can do such things as a curse. It’s merely a tool.”

Charles could feel the displeasure from Erik like a rising temperature. “That’s your prerogative,” Charles hastened to say. “And we respect that. However, if you wish to stay and train―”

“What I _wish_ is to be back on the Wall with my men,” Jon said. “I belong there. I took the oath, and I’m no deserter. Forgive me, but I’m not of this place. I’m thankful for the safety you’ve given my brother and sisters. Gods only know what they’ve been through, and I’ve no wish to have them relive it, but I belong _there_. Every day I stay here, I’m a traitor and foresworn, however unwilling.”

“You won’t be staying, then?” Charles asked. Rejection was not new in the nearly three years since he and Erik had begun finding mutant students to call his mansion home, but it was never any easier.

“No,” Jon said, rising. “I can’t. If I stay here, and see them every day―” His voice cracked, and he balled his gloved hand into a fist. “If I’m somehow able to find a way back, I’ll never be strong enough to leave them again. It’s better this way.”

“I understand,” Erik said, and Charles didn’t look at him.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Jon said, standing. “Magneto, I believe you said that you have a reliable teleporter in your employ who can take me back to Montreal before the Beaubiers leave.”

“I’ve heard that Clarice still occasionally disintegrates things on her attempts,” Erik said apologetically to Charles.

“Not nearly as often,” he protested. “She’s doing much better. But if you like, I can contact Azazel via Cerebro.”

“I hope you have good cognac on hand,” Erik said. “He’s refusing to take these side trips for free any more.”

* * *

“Professor!” Bran shouted, though they all knew that it was completely unnecessary to shout to a telepath. “Professor, I found him, I found him, gods, I think I did it!”

“Found who?” Charles asked, though by the degree of excitement and near panic pouring off of Bran in waves it was easy to guess, and the excitement was contagious.

“Rickon!” Bran yelled, wheeling himself at an extremely unsafe speed into the kitchen, with Alex, Scott, and Sean chasing after. Alex’s younger brother, nearly the same age as Rickon, had balloons tied to one wrist.

“Sorry, Professor,” Alex said. “He just took off.”

“I found him,” Bran said stubbornly. “At the zoo!”

Charles put down his sandwich. “Your brother was at the Bronx zoo?”

“No, _in,_ ” Bran said.

“I thought my brother was in the zoo but it was a hippo,” said Scott, smirking behind his red sunglasses.

“Shut up and go play outside,” Alex said. Scott scowled, but sidled out of the kitchen.

“I did! I was poking around because… because I was practicing,” Bran said, though Charles could feel the hidden _I wanted to see what it was like for them_ unsaid just underneath. “And I felt him, just for a moment!”

“It’s been over three years since you were last anywhere near your brother,” Sean said. “You sure you’d recognize his mind?”

“He’s my _brother_ ,” Bran said stubbornly. “I’d recognize him anywhere.” He turned his gaze to Charles, looking with big blue eyes that he’d been using to great effect on the older students since he was eight. At eleven, the effect was still good. “Please say we can go get him, please.”

“Who’s _we_?” said Alex. “You’re too little.”

“I felt him,” Bran said, setting his jaw stubbornly. The father of his memory had done that too; Charles could see it in the faces of the other Stark children and in the dreams that sometimes came unbidden into his mind when he was too tired to keep his mental shields up. “I want to go. I want to tell him to come home with me.”

 _Home_ meant the mansion now, for Bran as well as most of the students here. The thought made Charles proud.

“Alex is right,” Charles said. “You’re very brave, but eleven is much too young. What happens if the X-men run into bad people?”

“Arya ran into bad guys when she was my age,” Bran protested. “She just killed them. She said.”

“Arya isn’t exactly what you’d call a good role model,” Alex said.

“Look who’s talking, jailbird,” said Sean. Alex punched him in one arm.

“Karma can come,” Alex said, referring to Xi’an’s chosen code name. “Her, me, Banshee, Blink―”

“How come it’s only ever code names when you’re planning something?” Sean said. “How come it’s never when I want to look cool?”

“There is nothing cool about being called Banshee. Nothing.”

“I want to _go_ ,” Bran insisted. “I’m the one who found him! None of you will recognize him.”

“Bran, how do you know that he’ll still be there?” Charles asked. “It’s a good start, but… lots of people go through that zoo every day. If he was only passing through…”

Bran shifted uncomfortably. “He wasn’t exactly… _in_ anything. I was trying to warg into people. And he wasn’t in the crowds. He was under, in the… what do you call the tunnels again? The ones under big cities?”

“Sewers?” Sean asked, wrinkling his nose. “Your brother’s living in the sewers?”

“I suppose,” Bran said. “That’s where I felt him.”

“I’ve been some crappy places, but I’ve never been desperate enough to live in the sewers,” Alex said, shaking his head.

“See? We _have_ to get him out! Please?”

“The subway tunnels would be more likely, I would think,” Charles said. “In any case, our last hope of finding out how you and your family came here is with him. And even if he doesn’t know, he’s how old?”

“He’d be…” Bran thought it over. “He’d be seven now.”

“Christ,” Alex said. “Seven years old and living in a tunnel.”

“It’s no place for anyone, much less a small child,” Charles agreed. “Alex, get a team together. Bran, you aren’t going. Neither are Arya or Sansa, so don’t feel too left out. If you’d like, you can stay with me while I listen from Cerebro.”

Bran shrugged, but stopped begging.

That night, Alex, Sean, Xi’an, Clarice, and Victor left for New York City, while Bran sat quietly watching Hank and Charles operate Cerebro, Sansa half paid attention to her coursework, and Arya watched “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.” and dreamed of revenge.

* * *

He could feel them as Clarice teleported them into the subway tunnel, zeroing in on the spot that Charles had been able to pinpoint from Bran’s recollection. He couldn’t quite hear the audible noise that accompanied her particular spin on her gift, the one which had caused Sean to nickname her “Blink,” but he could imagine it well enough.

Charles tasted his students’ readiness, metal and adrenaline and the residual shiver of Clarice’s fear of accidental injury even though her teleportation had become increasingly reliable and its destructive capabilities harnessed to her will. Xi’an―Karma, on business―stretched out to find the feel of other minds further down the tunnels, and Charles could feel them too: mutants, all of them, burning brightly like candles in the gloom.

He fished among them for Rickon’s, the memory of a memory gleaned from Bran’s mind, and found it blazing among those bright mutant minds. _He’s not alone,_ he sent to the team.

Victor―Anole, the name he had picked from a zoology book for the misnamed American chameleon―clung to the wall, literally and figuratively, his scaled skin blending in and his hands and feet sticking to its surface. He crawled quietly to the tunnel’s ceiling, always cautious and ready to act as backup.

“Hello?” Havok called. “We’re not here to hurt anyone. We’re looking for a kid.”

“You’re here to take him from us,” called a voice from further down. “We knew you’d come.”

Charles felt for the source of that voice. It was a woman, ferocious and bitter. “His family’s been looking for him,” Havok yelled back. “They miss him a lot, and want him to come home.”

“ _This_ is his home,” the woman said. “We took him in, and kept him safe.”

“Look, lady,” said Banshee. “He’s got brothers and sisters who want him back. They haven’t seen him in a long time, and thought he was freaking dead. Does that seem right to you?”

“We’ve got nothing, you come in here and want to take our children, and start telling us about what’s _right_?” the woman asked incredulously. Charles could feel her anger, raw rage and an old hate boiling up.

“Why don’t you ask him what he wants?” Karma asked. “Rickon? Can you hear us?”

There was silence, before a young boy’s sullen voice called through the tunnel. “Yes.”

“Rickon, Bran and Arya and Sansa and Jon are all here, and they want to see you. Bran and Jon have their wolves―Summer and Ghost. Do you have yours? Shaggydog?”

He was silent again. “Shaggy’s here.”

“Good. They weren’t sure. Rickon, they’re worried about you. Bran wanted to come, but he’s too young to be in a place like this.” Realizing that she had just accidentally insulted however many tunnel-dwellers that were listening, she quickly said, “And I’m sure that the Professor wouldn’t mind letting more people in. He’s let all sorts of other mutants with nowhere else to go in. Or else Magneto would―I’ve never seen either of them turn anyone away."

 _How kind of you to ask first,_ Charles thought, and Karma apologized silently.

More silence, and then Rickon asked, “Only them? Not Robb and Father and Mother?”

Charles could feel Karma’s sadness, and his own heart broke a little. “No.”

Down the tunnel, the last of the direwolves snarled. “It’s not fair!” Rickon yelled.

“No, it’s not,” Karma said, and Charles could feel her thinking of her own family, dead or lost in a war half a world away. “But we can take you back to the ones you have left.”

* * *

“What’s this about, Magneto?” Jon asked, when they met in front of the mansion. It was the second time that Erik had seen him in the past year, since he and Jean-Paul and Jeanne-Marie had assisted his Brotherhood with the dismantling of a potentially problematic laboratory in Colorado. Since then, Jon had added a chemical burn to his collection of facial scars. It was a miracle that he hadn’t been blinded.

“Your guess is as good as mine. And please, it’s Erik when we’re not out on business.” He adjusted his coat. “God, I hate the cold.”

“This is nothing,” Jon said, shouldering his sword. “Back on the Wall, this would be a pleasant summer afternoon.”

“And you want to go back there someday?” Erik shook his head in disbelief.

“I think I’ve found answers,” Charles said once they were inside, without any other greeting.

Erik raised his eyebrows. “Hello to you, too. Thank you for your offer of snacks and a hot drink.”

“Yes, yes.” Charles waved at the seats in his office, distracted. “I think this is more important than biscuits. Bran found Rickon―”

“Rickon’s here?” Jon asked, leaning forward. Ghost, who had settled down at his feet, lifted his enormous shaggy head and watched Charles with those unnerving red eyes.

“Yes, along with a few of the mutants who took him in.” Charles shook his head. “Curious people. In any case, I wasn’t entirely correct in my assumptions.”

“Assumptions?” Erik asked.

“About familial mutations. I’d been assuming family mutations would always involve similar manifestations. Alex and Scott Summers both project energy, albeit in different ways, for example. Jon, you, Arya, and Bran all seem to have the ability to inhabit the mind of others, to greater or lesser degrees.”

“Warging,” Jon said, stone-faced.

“Whatever you wish to call it. I’d assumed that it was a matter of degrees, but in the past few years of working with Bran, I’ve noticed that his potential is so much greater than merely possessing animals. He can possess people, and has been developing limited telepathy, and lately he and Betsy Braddock have been working on exercises to develop their limited precognition. One day he might be a telepath on the level of Emma Frost, Erik.”

“What about Arya?” Erik asked.

“I can’t say for certain,” Charles said, somewhat remorsefully. “She seems bound and determined not to consciously use her powers, this ‘warging.’ She’s content enough to let it be a substitute for dreams, but beyond that she has no interest in it. As a coping method it’s remarkable, but―”

“And Rickon?” Jon asked.

“He has no ability of this sort,” Charles said. “He has a strong bond with his direwolf, but no more than one would expect from a close relationship with a pet. His abilities might have manifested due to a completely different set of traumas, or a different perception of the same traumas that Bran encountered. He has an untrained but potentially remarkable teleportation ability.”

“A what?” Jon asked, perplexed, as Erik leaned back in his chair.

“I could let him explain it to you, if you like, but I think I’ve put it in better terms than a seven-year-old could. With his family gone, and separated at last from his brother, left in the care of a virtual stranger, he found himself wishing for everyone to be together and in a safe place. Mutant abilities typically manifest closer to puberty, but under extreme trauma―”

“He teleported them here,” Erik said, fascinated. “A four-year-old moved his surviving family across worlds.”

“He couldn’t have,” Jon said, horrified. “He can’t―” He jumped to his feet. “Where is he?”

“Jon,” Charles said, “He’s very young, he didn’t know what―”

“Ghost, find Rickon,” Jon said. The direwolf hauled itself to his feet and darted out the door, Jon following.

Charles gave Erik a panicked look. “I don’t think this will end well. Erik, you can catch up to him quicker than I can.”

Erik nodded and followed Jon out into the hall, chasing him down until they had caught up to where Rickon sat with his brother and sisters in the kitchen. It had been a peaceful scene until Jon and Ghost barreled in: Rickon and Arya using spoons to launch cereal at each other, Bran egging them on, and Sansa pretending that she was too old and dignified to be glad to be watching it one more time. They all froze, with Summer and Shaggydog growling threateningly at their littermate.

“Rickon,” Jon said, his voice low and furious. “How could you?”

“Jon?” Arya asked. “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

“How _could_ you?” Jon asked again, anguished. “Did you do it? Did you bring us here?”

Rickon backed into his chair, looking like he wanted nothing more than to melt into it. From just outside, Julio and Roberto peeked in. Erik, catching up, waved them away.

“I wanted us to be together again,” Rickon said in a small voice. “Didn’t you?”

For a moment, Erik thought that Jon was going to snap. Evidently, so did the other Stark children―none of them moved. Sansa’s face was the blank look that he recognized from someone who had learned that passivity made for a less tempting target. Arya’s looked as if she was torn between grabbing the bread knife and not stabbing her favorite brother. Bran just watched, understanding beginning to dawn.

“Rickon,” Jon said, pulling up a chair and sitting down like his strings had been cut, “You made me a deserter.”

“No I didn’t,” Rickon said automatically.

“Yes, you did. Do you remember when Father would find deserters?” Jon asked.

Rickon didn’t meet his eyes, or answer in any way. Which was in itself an answer, Erik supposed. “You remember what used to happen to deserters,” Jon continued. “What happened to them, Rickon?”

“Cut their heads off,” he muttered.

“Right. You never saw it, but I did. And Bran did. If I’m not at my post, then you’ve made me a deserter. I can’t live with that.”

“But they don’t cut off heads here. They _said_.”

“They might not,” Jon agreed, “but I’ll know I’m a deserter. That’s the important thing. I don’t belong here. I love you―I love all of you―but I’m needed back on the Wall.” He looked Rickon in the eyes. “You need to send me back.”

“No,” Arya said fiercely. “It’s been three years. They’ll think you’ve deserted anyway. You can’t go back now.”

“Do you think Father would have approved of cowardice?” Jon asked. Arya dropped her eyes, ashamed.

“You can’t make me,” Rickon said, but he sounded defeated.

“I’m needed there. And if they kill me for a deserter, I’ll know I did the honorable thing and went back to face it with my eyes open. Will you make an oathbreaker of me, little brother?”

Erik felt a hand on his arm. Behind him, Charles had caught up. _Let them say their goodbyes,_ he thought at Erik, pain evident in his face and his mental voice. _They all know how this is going to end._

* * *

  
_Epilogue_   


Rickon sent Jon back that night. The Stark children spent the night in a vigil outside, in front of one of the oldest trees on the estate, though Arya came inside at midnight. When Erik asked her why, she said, “The old gods aren’t here, and they never listened at home. I don’t believe in gods who take my family from me.”

In 1969, Sansa was accepted to college. She left the mansion for the first time since her arrival, intending to become a social worker.

In 1970, Arya began taking shooting lessons from Erik. In 1971 she left the mansion for the Brotherhood, calling herself Stranger.

In 1972, Bran took the codename Warg. In 1973, Shaggydog died in his sleep, and was buried underneath the tree that the Starks had taken to praying under.

In 1975, Rickon used his teleportation for the first time since sending Jon back to Westeros, to help evacuate an attack on the mansion. Magneto and the Brotherhood assisted, with Arya seeing her brothers and sister for the first time in four years. Summer died with Bran's mind warging into him one last time, holding the door of a room before Clarice could blink its occupants to safety. Bran died minutes later, his body crushed underneath rubble before he could escape. Magneto stayed to help rebuild. Arya did not.

In 1976, Arya took a sniper rifle, a knapsack of ammunition, and asked Rickon to send her back to Westeros.

**Author's Note:**

> This was started exactly a week before the release of "A Dance With Dragons" and I somehow managed to almost completely avoid spoilers, so while the Starks were all pulled from the same point in time, out of necessity the only one with any detail of this given is Arya. (I get the feeling that if I follow this up at any point in time, I'll be fudging the canonical story of what happened with Bran and Jon during the post-"Storm of Swords" months.) Despite my best effort at researching the subways of New York City, Quebecois slang and the like, I'm positive that there are more than a few research fails in here and I take full responsibility. And yes, Anole in 616 Marvel was not around in the 60s--but then again, neither was Angel Salvadore, so :-P


End file.
